A Scandal At 221B
by TheGoodDirector
Summary: Sherlock and John have a nasty domestic. So naturally, John leaves which means The Detective gets himself into a world of trouble. Major Domestic. Rated M for mentions of Self Harm and Smoking.


~A Scandal At 221b~

Sherlock's bad week started with the row he and John had early Monday morning.

~oOo~

John had wearily trudged downstairs into the sitting room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, intent on making tea for himself and Sherlock, only if the man wasn't already out or delved into one of his experiments. Upon reaching the last step, he took in the sight of the consulting detective, clad in pyjamas and situated in one of his usual positions on the couch. Legs outstretched, feet propped up on one arm, his head rested against the other. He was staring blindly up at the ceiling, silently caressing strings on the violin that laid on his chest.

John smiled and padded into the kitchen on bare feet, thankful for the very rare, quiet morning. He grabbed the kettle, humming contendedly to himself and opened the cold tap when-

"Sarah's sleeping with another man."

Water continued to pour from the tap as John turned and walked slowly into the sitting room. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch or looked away from the apparently spectacular water stain on the corner wall.

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock's hands stilled on the instument and he let out a hushed sigh. He placed the violin by the side of the couch carefully and sat up, smoothing out the arms of his blue robe. He peered into the kitchen where the water was still running, then looked up at John.

"Sarah, is sleeping with another man." He repeated.

John's lips thinned and he nodded, eyes practically unreadable as his hands clenched and unclenched unconsciously. He turned on his heels, walked into the kitchen to turn off the tap then walked back upstairs to his room. Sherlock sat there quietly, confused and listened the rummaging sounds of drawers and closet doors being pulled open and slammed shut. In record time, John made it back downstairs with a packed bag in tow. Sherlock stared at him quizically, eyebrows furrowed.

"Where are you going?"

John stopped by the front door and turned to face his flatmate.

"You-! I-" He took a sharp breath through his nose, licked his lips and smirked sadly. Having waved an accusing finger.

"I put up with you and your damn experiments and your narcissistic attitude day in and day out and I don't mind because I know you can't help any of it. Your personality is forgivable, the Great Sherlock Holmes isn't perfect. Your hobbies, only mildly disappointing, on a good day! So yeah, I cope."

"Well _**obviously**_." The detective scoffed. "Otherwise-"

"Shut it!" John shouted. Pinching the bridge of his nose with an exhale.

"I try to understad, I really do. I get that you're not big on social interaction-"

"I really don't see the significance behind-"

"There are _**rules**_, Sherlock! When it comes down to the sanctity of a relationship, you respect it! Quietly! There's no third party! You mind yourself. Which means, it's not your bussiness. Your mate's been having a rough time with his girlfriend? That's fine. Go to a pub, talk to him about it over a pint. _**That's**_ what friends do. YOU DON'T TELL HIM SHE'S SHAGGING ANOTHER BLOKE _**FIVE MINUTES **_AFTER HE'S WOKEN UP IN THE MORNING!"

With that, John stormed out of the flat. Shouting abuse all the way downstairs, cursing as he left the building with a final slam of the door.

The detective watched as John hailed down and jumped into a cab, tearing his eyes off the street only after the car fled down Baker Street. Sherlock hadn't thought ahead, he hadn't expected such an explosive reaction. But he supposed he could have broken the news in a more amiable sense. Personal boundaries were a civilian neccessity he never bothered with.

Nevertheless, the doctor's moods were always manegable. It was Tuesday afternoon when Lestrade called him down to The Shard for a job that things really went to hell.

A very grisly triple homicide was laid before them. It would have made for a very interesting case, had it not been so transparent. The first body had been found on the third floor, the second on the sixth and the third on the ninth. All with their necks snapped and ring fingers missing.

Sherlock recognized the M.O right away from a similar homicide that occured five years earlier in Brixton. He informed Lestrade where they'd find their killer and was on his way out when he overheard Donovan and Anderson chattering over by the Coroner's cab. He sneered and walked out to the curb to wait for a cab, pulling tight on his coat collar with an unconscious scowl on his face. A way of an apology was making it's way through his head when Donovan chimed up behind him.

"Oi! What's the matter, Freak?" She said. "You and the Mrs. have a row?"

Though he'd never admit it, working on cases wasn't the same without John by his side. He enjoyed the doctor's imput, the praise, his company in general. A case without John, he'd confessed to Lestrade one day, regretably in the presence of Sally and Dimmock, was depressing. Which struck up and fueled unessessary speculation. It's been a few months now that The Yard has been poking fun at his and John's so called 'questionable relationship.' But fact is, he and John's friendship is professional and platonic, on the case or as flatmates. He really couldn't care less about the fun they liked to poke. But then Anderson had to open his mouth.

"Looks it. Psycho boy finally ran him off probably. The poor sod. Wanker still hasn't learned to keep his big mouth shut." He laughed.

Sherlock snapped.

The detective spun on his heels and was on the man in seconds, grabbing handfuls of the Forensic Specialist's shirt front and pinning him against the car. Sally only rolled her eyes and shouted out for assistance. Sherlock managed to land two solid blows to Anderson's face before being pried off by Lestrade and two other Yarders.

After that, Lestrade thanked Sherlock for the information, but warned him and made it very clear that he take the rest of the week off. He began to protest but the D.I threatened assault charges and insisted that his help was no longer needed until futher notice.

And so for the next five days, Sherlock locked himself away in the flat. Completely out of spirits for experiments or to find his own private cases. He was sure Lestrade made it a point to contact the other departments and let them aware of the situation. He had nothing to do for remainder of the week and he refused to panic.

That Wednesday, the four walls of the sitting room were deduced to oblivion. Sherlock made sure he knew how long the wall paper had been plastered to the paneling and where it had been printed. Cloncluded that the building was erected some odd one hundred and thirty years prior by the state of the kitchen ceiling. Even John's blog was not spared from scrutiny. He read through the site and fought off the urge to change his account password. By noon, there was nothing in the flat left for him to analyze. So he held his violin for a few hours and even attempted to play a piece he'd composed. But found himself to depressed to do so. He spent the rest of that day being consumed by the couch.

On Saturday, the eerie silence that resounded around him had become unbearable. He checked his phone for the millionth time that day and felt pathetic self loathing begin to rise. No calls or texts from John, nor Mycroft. Or Lestrade. Calling his old dealer crossed him mind a few times and a mental war was waged between rationality and reason. All doors to the palace were breaking open and a rocket was being launched.

He'd been pacing through the flat trying to keep his body in motion. Fuming, venting, wanting to crush something or shout at someone. He recited the entire periodic table fifty times, in alphabetical order trying to keep his body and mind occupied. Protons, atoms, atomic numbers, melting points, isotopes-

_**'Actinium, Aluminum, Americium, Antimony, Argon, Arsenic, Astatine, Barium, Berkelium, Beryllium, Bismuth, Bohrium, Boron, Bromine, Cadmium, Calcium, Californium, Carbon, Cerium, Cesium, Chlorine, Chromium, Cobalt, Copper, Curium, Darmstadtium, Dubnium, Dysprosium, Einsteinium, Erbium, Europium, Fermium, Fluorine, Francium, Gadolinium, Gallium, Germanium, Gold, Hafnium, Hassium, Helium-'**_

He swore he was about to implode or do something extremely regretable. Instead he looked around, grabbed the biggest, solid object he could reach and hurled it at the mantle piece above the fire place.

Low and behold, a full pack of cigarettes fell from behind a picture frame.

~oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo~

And now here he stands. Presently contemplating the choice he's about to make and the consequences that will follow afterword. He'd promised John he wouldn't.

He rolls his eyes and shrugs.

With shaking hands he brings the cigarette to his lips, lights it up and takes a long, deep drag. Letting all the friendly familliar toxins fill him up and slow his nerves before he breathes it down to the filter.

_**'Cigarettes. Tobacco. Bad news for brain work. Nicotine reaches the brain within ten seconds after smoke is inhaled. Carbon monoxide binds to the hemoglobin in red blood cells, preventing affected cells from carrying a full load of oxygen. Cancer-causing agents in tobacco smoke damage important genes that control the growth of cells, causing them to grow abnormally or to reproduce too rapidly. Benzoapyrene binds to cells in the airways and major organs of smokers. Smoking affects the function of the immune system and may increase the risk for respiratory and other-'**_

He smokes another, and another, then four more until he's calm enough to sit down. He sets himself in John's chair facing the window, cigarette burning between his fingers, his mind still hot and whirring. Furious, he's furious. He exhales and stares at the burning ember at the end of the cigarette. Wondering as the hot red spike trails a fine white line of smoke through the cold air. He struggles out of his coat and jacket, unbuttoning the cuff of his left sleeve and sliding it up passed his elbow. He fixes his eyes on his pale flesh. Every blue vein under the surface of his skin stands out in contrast to his complexion. As do the small scars in the crook of his arm. He brings the cigarette close and lets it linger a mere milimeter above his arm, feeling the heat of it graze his skin. With his fist clenched, he closes his eyes, sets his jaw and presses the blistering cherry into his forearm. A hiss snakes through his gritted teeth as he lets his head fall back. Endorphins rush, numbing the pain and turning it into a more pleasurable situation, as he's now only registering the dull, burning, euphoric sensation coursing through his body.

_**'Endogenous opioid peptides. Neurotransmitters produced by the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus in vertebrates released during acts such as excitement, pain, love or orgasm. Producing analgesia and a feeling of well-being.'**_

He shudders lightly at the thought of the scar that'll leave.

_**'Scarring created by fibroblast proliferation, a process that begins with a reaction to the clot to mend the damage. the fibroblast proliferation lays down thick, whitish collagen inside the provisional and collagen matrix, resulting in the abundant production of packed collagen on the fibers giving scars their uneven- STOP. STOP IT. Stop thinking.'**_ He tells himself.

He dismisses the thoughts and goes back to smoking. breathes out slowly, smoke languidly pouring from his nostrils. When the whirring in his mind finally coming to a stop, he hear footsteps making their way upstairs. John's footsteps. Sherlock finishes the cigarette in one breath. Stamps it out, stands slowly from John's chair and walks into the bathroon. He shuts the door quietly behind him.

~oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo~

'Christ.'

It'd been a week since John had been to the flat. He knew Sherlock was gonna be cross with him. Lastrade had told him what happened at The Shard on Tuesday and John couldn't help but partly blame himslef. Even if the tosser had greeted him with a reasonably rude awakening, he was right. He confronted Sarah about it and they called it off. That night Molly had gracefully allowed him to stay on her couch for the next few days, he needed time to himself to think. Remorse found him quickly. Because there's nothing worse than a Sherlock Holmes left on his own. God knows what he's been doing.

John hobbles into the flat, his arms filled with groceries.

"Sherlock?" He manages to call out, all but suffocated by the brown Tesco bags.

He slowly makes his way into the kitchen, attempting to make some room on Sherlock's lab table for the food. A quick sweep of the flat determines that nothing seems out of place. Messy and little worse for wear but not an unusual state.

"Sherlock, can I apologize? I know, it's really not my place. I just hope you can understand that I've been under alot of stress."

John's half aware of a peculiar gritty scent wafting around him as he waits for an answer that doesn't come. Typical. He opens up the fridge and begins to restock. Placing milk and jam on the highest rack when he stops suddenly and rights himself. Forgetting the bags, he walks into the sitting room cautiously and finally recognizes the smell. Smoke. Fresh cigarette smoke. Sherlock's found the pack... He looks around again.

There. On the small table between their arm chairs lays the half empty carton of smokes. Beside it, one of his nicest teacups used brutally as an ashtray, filled with soot and charred filters.

"Bloody- Sherlock!"

In the shower, Sherlock brushes his teeth quickly as the water rains torrid on his back. He listens to John move about the flat and shout out for him. The genius curses himself for leaving his mess on display in the living room. He lathers himself in soap, desperately trying to rid the trace of stale smoke that settled into his hair and skin. A quick wave of vertigo passes through him and he braces himself against the tile wall, letting the hot jet keep him alert.

_**'Fatigue. Dry mouth. Rapid heart acceleration. Lightheadedness. Exhaustion. Rushing adrenaline. Nausea. Migrane swelling. Shallow breathing. Set off by hunger and dehydration, possible nicotine poisoning. How many days has it been since I've eaten? Lost count. Since John left?' **_

He shakes his head and attempts to regain some balance.

_**'Stop. Breathe. Concentrate. Control this transport.'**_

John knocks on the bathroom door.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"Quite so." He calls as he closes the tap.

The tall man steps out on shaking legs and holds onto the wall for support. He braces himself against the sink and swears, scrutinizing the water pooling around his feet. No towel... no clothes... He sighs.

"We need to talk." John says, retreating back into the kitchen.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he slips back into the clothes he'd just been wearing, soaking them completely. When he emerges from the bathroom, John's sitting in his arm chair blowing on a cup of tea. He approaches casually, noticing that the doctor's made him a cuppa as well.

John observes in earnest as Sherlock takes a seat with odd precaution, failing to make it look discreet. Water's dripping swifly from his sopping mop of dark curls. It trickles down the side his face and neck, absorbing into his shirt collar. He sniffs before sitting upright and stares at the detective.

"You're soaking wet."

"Brilliant deduction, Doctor."

John purses his lips.

"I was hot. I had a shower." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"It's forty degrees out."

"Well it's warm in here."

"Why not open a window?"

"I prefer this, thank you."

"Your face is flushed."

Sherlock turns away and looks at his tea. "I said I was hot."

John fights the urge to put his hand up to his friend's forehead. He really isn't looking good. His face completely ashen besides the dark pink flush on his chest and cheeks.

"Have you eaten?"

Sherlock fixes his dark eyes on him.

"Right then. Fine. Wanna tell me what's wrong?"

"Why do you assume something's wrong?"

"Anderson's face."

"Please, John. That could've been anyone."

John wants to smirk, but keeps his composure. Instead, he holds up the crumpled pack of smokes and glares at him with tight lips.

"Yes, I found them. I had a few."

"You had eight."

Sherlock sighs loudly with a shrug. Then picks up his cup and takes a sip.

"So my week wasn't absolutely remarkable. Arrest me."

"You were doing so well though."

"Be happy it wasn't something else." Sherlock swears under his breath.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock's phone, which had been left neglected on the couch for days, beeps twice, alerting new text messages.

The detective jumps out of his seat, ignoring John, ecstatic for the distraction, then even more so when he sees that the messages are from Lestrade.

"Let's go." He says, pulling his coat from off the couch and slipping on his shoes.

"You can't go out like that. You'll get sick!"

"I'm perfectly fine, Now let's go!" Sherlock huffs.

~oOoOoOoOoOoOo The Crime Scene oOoOoOoOoOoOo~

It started pouring rain on the cab ride over and John noticed Sherlock's morose attitude. The dark man just stared out the window, his breath fogging up the clear glass, not even bothering to mention the nature of the case. He knew he would be a little mad. But their arguments were usually forgotten when they were called in. Usually, he hummed with excitement, hardly able to contain the fact that he had a new, possibly interesting story to solve.

Everyone was already on scene when they arrived. Lestrade's talking to Sally, and Anderson is on his own dusting something off in the bathroom, his back to everyone.

Greg takes one puzzled look at the soaking pair as they walk in.

"You're all-"

'It's raining, Lestrade!" Sherlock warns. "Now run me through this, quickly." He says taking in the scene with a quick 360 glance.

"Right. Elizabeth Eden. Twenty two year old white female. Fatal shot to the chest. She'd only called in about ten minutes ago, frantic, explaining that she was being held hostage by her fiancé. I'd sent three cars over immediately." Lestrade lets his head fall, gaze averted. "We were too late."

"Fiancé." Sherlock repeats, seeming very interested in an array of perfume and colognes on the bedside table.

"Joseph Leads. Twenty eight year old African American male. We found him over her body when we arrived, gun in hand. He's already in custody awaiting questioning at The Yard."

Sherlock advances towards the bed and kneels. The young woman lays sprawled, naked save for a sheet that's been layed over her, on the side of the luxury bed, a fatal gun shot wound to the chest. Fresh blood seeping through the thin white cover. Sherlock smirks.

"Release Joseph Leads from your custody. Honestly, I don't know why you had me come down here. Well, that's not true, you all would've never caught on."

"Bloody- You only just got here! Care to explain?" Lestrade says exasperated.

Sherlock sighs, like he's disappointed that he's human like the rest of them. He staggers slightly and John notices as he leans himself against the wall.

"Sherlock?"

He's only ignored as Sherlock presses on.

"Miss Eden found that Leads was seeing another woman. A much older woman, justly, old enough to be his grandmother."

"What, really?" Remarks Lestrade.

"Clearly." He sniffs a coat that's draped atop a large bureau and tosses it to Lastrade.

"His coat. Notice the slight scent of Coco Mademoiselle. A fragrance for a much older woman, which niether of them own." He points to the bedside table where the fragrances sit. "He was with her before he got back and didn't expect to find Eden here. As it's only noon. She was supposed to be at school."

"Alright, so then he's got this woman on the side and decides to off his fiancé cos she's found out about it?" Sally asks.

Sherlock shakes his head, quite miffed.

"No, no. He's not the violent type."

He gestures to a book shelf off in the corner containing works by Plato, Locke and Epicurus then across the room where frames of diplomas and degrees from Oxford University hang proudly on display next to a couple of amature, abstract collages.

"A promising young man with a major in Philosophy and going into Politics. Engaged to a younger Art Major? No, he was never really interested in her. She was just a front for his parents. He was more interested in a mature woman, he preferd intellect. Something Miss Eden obviously lacked."

Lestrade nods, eyes wide, understanding a bit.

"Their hasty engagement was pressured by his parents who wanted grandchildren. That was the mistake. Because this couple hadn't been together long enough to realize each others faults. Miss Eden was over obsessive and jealous, with a history of depression. I hope you observed the scars on her inner arms. Why she chose to kill herself today of all days is beyond me. She'd known about his affair for months."

"Slow down, Freak. You're not actually calling this a suicide, are you?" Sally calls from the side.

John winces at the word Freak. He's never gotten over it's sting.

A growl escapes Sherlock's throat.

"Yes! Do try to keep up! Check the gun, it's registered to her. She called The Yard moments before Mr Leads arrived. He found her here in the bedroom, naked, distraught. She confronted him with a weapon and an ultimatum. To which he tried deperately to reason. When he grabbed for the gun to disarm her, a shot was fired, missing him by mere inches-"

He points to the stray bullet hole in the wall opposite of the bed.

"As he attempted to recover from the sound of the blast, she placed the barrel to her chest and pulled the trigger. She died instantly, the bullet peircing straight through her heart. He panicked, took the gun from her hands, staining himself with her DNA, you all rush in, the whole scene looks like the murder she attempted to stage."

They all look at him dumbfounded. Even John stands there with his mouth agape. Everyone knows Sherlock is quick, sharp. But this is new, he'd gotten it too quick.

"I assume all of this is in Mr Lead's statement?" Sherlock says, pushing himself off the wall.

"Um... yes." Lestrade scratches his head. "Well, I uh, guess we're done here then." He huffs at Donovan.

Sally throws her hands up and shakes her head as she walks over to Anderson who chose to overhear the whole conversation from the next room. Sherlock pulls on the lapels of his coat and tightens his scarf, casting a weary glance at John.

"Shall we be off?" He says making his way out of the suite.

John follows him silently, trying to recover from the epic shock. They're walking down the hallway and the doctor doesn't notice when Sherlcok slows down.

"That was bloody brilliant, I hope you know that!" John declares as they reach the elevator.

Sherlock pouts tightly, pressing the button but suddenly staggers into his shorter friend, his legs failing him.

"Whoa, whoa, easy." John says catching him.

The detective grabs onto the arm of John's coat while the doctor holds him up against the wall.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He whispers, forcing himself away from the wall only to have his legs give out entirely, sending him crashing face first to the carpeted floor.

John quickly lowers himself to the floor with him.

"Christ, Sherlock?" He tries to prop Sherlock up against the wall but gives up because the man's nothing but a heavy, wet mass of limbs. He leans over and grabs his wrist to check for a pulse, it's fluttery underneath his fingertps.

White spots float around in front of the detective's eyes as the lights start to dim. Only John's face is visible as the incandesence of the bulbs in the ceiling glow behind him. His eye lids feel like lead weights and they flutter slightly as a black void consumes him.

"Sherlock? Sherl- stay awake. Damn it. Lestrade? Anyone? I need some help out here!" John shouts.

The D.I marches down the hallways quickly, falling to the floor beside him while Sally and Anderson watch from the doorway.

"What's happened to him now?" Greg asks, turning his reciever on.

"Nicotine poisoning. The stupid git had smoked more than half a pack of cigarettes when I'd gotten home. I don't think he's eaten or slept much either. Could be slight hypothermic shock as well." John says brushing back wet curls from Sherlock's forehead.

Lestrade nods and shakes his head agrily, but his eyes are fixed sadly on his self destructive young friend.

"Yeah, I need an ambulance here at 1207 North Deansgate, we've got a man down, possibly critical. Donovan! You and Anderson head downstrairs, let me know when the car arrives."

Sally nods, looking genuinely concerned. Anderson follows en suite.

"He's burning up. I need to get him out of these wet clothes. Find me a blanket, a towel, anything. We need to dry him off and keep him warm." John orders, the doctor in him taking charge of the situation.

Lestrade nods and takes off back into the room. Sherlock stirs, his eyes fluttering open slightly.

"John m'fine." He mumbles raising his right hand, waving it in front of John, trying to cast him off.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay awake. We've a car coming, you're going to the hospital." He says unfastening the buttons of Sherlock's expensive coat and jacket with sure precision.

He tugs the garments off his thin, broad shoulders and watches helplessly as the young man falls into darkness again.

"Lestrade?" He shouts to the side.

It takes John quite a bit of effort to manuver Sherlock's unconscious frame. His whole body's shaking from the strain by the time he reaches the wet white dress shirt sticking to the detective's pale, damp chest. After a contemplative moment, John decides that it's a worthy sacrifice and just rips the shirt open. He swears he can hear the buttons scream as the shirt's torn apart. He presses his fingers to Sherlock's long, pale neck to for his pulse again which he finds is lighter than before. John finally manages to pull Sharlock's slender arms free of the wet sleeves, but the buttoned cuffs snag around his thin wrists.

Lestrade runs back, a thick blue comforter buddled in his arms. He gets to his knees next to John and with his help, throws it open and lets it fall over Sherlock's body.

"The cab's just around the corner" Greg says, relieved.

"Great."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

A few weeks passed before Sherlock was back on his feet properly. He'd been checked into the hospital against his will and at Mycroft's request. Three days flew by before his vitals were normal and another four before he was strong enough to get out of bed. His time spent in the hospital didn't go without complaint, it never did. He was constantly trying to persuade John to break him out. It was quite a struggle to put up with. But on the day of his release, he bounded out of the A&E stronger than ever, like a child excited on the first day of Summer.

John knew he'd get Sherlock to talk about it sometime, but for now, as long as the detective was distracted, he'd leave the matter alone.


End file.
